


Honorem et Gloriam

by kayabiter, Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Child Abuse, Drabble, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.
Relationships: The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed) & Wicklow (Cursed)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	1. Worship

It was as if God had sculpted him by hand. With the Devil lingering in the details, perfection was hard to come by, but one could see the patience and passion behind what was undoubtedly God’s finest work. The Bible said not to lust, but it was hard when his eyes burned like the hottest flame; when he was as strong as the storm that sent the waves crashing onto the rocks; when he was as loyal as the shadow on a sunny day. As Wicklow swept a finger over those ashen tears, what the Bible said felt like blasphemy.


	2. Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've updated the tags for this chapter, spare them a second glance. In this chapter we glimpse at Lancelot's childhood and his first time in the Red Paladins' care. This chapter is also _not_ beta read, so all mistakes are our own.

_ Age 5 _

“Sit still, you unruly child!” 

Dust danced in the kitchen sunlight. Lancelot mewled, jaw pinched angrily by the abbess who scrubbed the cold cloth over his cheek. It hurt—it hurt as if the skin was about to come off, sore and aching but the more he tried to pull away, the harder she held onto him. The abbess pursed her lips together in the same way her eyebrows reached for each other – the quiet anger on her face made her look like the shaman who’d barked at him a month ago for accidentally setting the sacred longhouse ablaze. 

Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut as he shifted in his seat. His heart pounded with such vigour it felt as if he was about to shoot off the counter and into the domed ceiling. The houses back home hadn’t even been half the size of this room, but he’d never felt more trapped. 

The old, wrinkly bat leaned back, pulling the cloth away from his face and Lancelot pried one eye open when the grip on his jaw disappeared. He’d never met anyone as old as her; it was as if she needed stitches to even keep her eyes open. Her wide shoulders heaved as she breathed out and brought the cloth down into the murky bowl; it smelled of honey blossom and roses, a sweet scent that still stung in his nose. 

Lancelot raised a hand to wipe his cheek where she’d scrubbed, wincing when the pain bloomed at the lightest touch of his fingertips. The abbess shot him a sharp look, huffing before she wrung the cloth dry. He sucked in a shaky breath as he scooted further back on the counter – mind, body and soul crawling with the dire need to get away because he’d already done  _ everything  _ they’d told him to— 

—he bumped his head against the wall shelf, face scrunching up in pain. Once again, the abbess pinched her thick fingers around his jaw with ease, yanking his head forward and then up as she put the cold cloth to his face and scrubbed the same tender spot. 

“Stop!” 

“Just sit still!” 

Lancelot kicked his feet, tiny hands balling into angry fists, and shoved the abbess away with every ounce of his strength. Her face darkened – the fit was barely enough to make her flinch and she froze as if time seized to exist. It was enough to throw water onto his fiery anger. He blinked once—twice but she still wasn’t moving and for a petrified moment, he was certain that she would yank him by the ear so hard that it would feel like it remained in her rough hand. She’d done it before—yesterday when he’d accidentally spilt a can of milk and— 

—she tossed the cloth straight in his face. It fell into his lap with a wet splash. 

“It’s hopeless,” she huffed out. 

“Try again,” came the reply from over her shoulder – a calm, almost gentle voice. 

The abbess turned away from Lancelot and faced the man who sat at the table with his eyes peeled at the maps before him. She breathed in through her nose and Lancelot supposed that if looks could kill, it would be the one she sent to the old man. 

“I already have, Father,” she said and then raised her hand, pointing to Lancelot. “These are permanent marks.”

The chair creaked as the man leaned back, gaze rising and arms coming to cross over his chest. He didn’t look tired or angry or flustered, but there was something bad in his eyes that made Lancelot look away the moment a smile stretched his lips. 

“There’s a shipment of lemons coming in tomorrow – let's try that,” he said simply. “I’ve heard it's best to leave some of the juice out on the skin while there is sun.” 

“Father Carden,” the abbess sighed, “lemon juice will perhaps make them fade a little… but I beg you to reconsider. This savage boy is a lost cause through and through.” 

“Have some faith, sister Pepper. There are no souls who can’t find their way to God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we'll make a small jump and meet Lancelot as a teenager. Subscribe to the story; kudos and comments are always appreciated. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 100-word drabble teaser for a bigger story to come. :) Subscribe and sit back, the next chapter shouldn't be too far away. Kudos and comments are always appreciated even on short works like this. Last but not least, we can't be the only ones who noticed that Wicklow seemed to be Lancelot's ultimate fanboy?


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